On the Radio we Heard November Rain
by dee die dum
Summary: Because he was a perfectionist, he wouldn't understand beauty. They had different views on what beauty looks like, after all. Novelist!Arthur and a Art Teacher!Francis. Arthur is in a journey to write a new book, he finds himself staring at the mural in a not so famous arts buidling in a random college. He didn't know who the mystery painter was, but he was sure he will hate her


**Chapter One - They Made a Statue of Us**

Arthur Kirkland

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 **A/N:** This story is probably gonna fail, so don't have so much expectations about it. I want to share this AU to all of you, though. And if Artie is a douche at first, but he's gonna be like that forever -just for the most part of the story. Please bear with meee, this is relevant to the plot! SORRY FOR THE OOCNESS. Also, I do not own Hetalia and all that shit.

The whole story in a nutshell: Francis paints. Arthur finds said painting, proceeds to insult it, write a book out of it. Add romance, maybe comedy, angst, and some swear words and flirting.

Story Title is from "On the Radio" of Regina Spektor and chapter title is from "Us" of Regina Spektor. Yes, I am a big fan! :D :D

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"Why aren't you here with me?" I demanded angrily over the phone, because no matter how annoying and irritating my stupid editor is, I needed him here so I wouldn't be wandering around this place alone (and everyone else just gave up on me cause who in their right mind wanted to accompany a burn-out novelist on a journey for inspiration? That would be Alfred, but that's only because his salary depended on it.)

"I'm on a date today! Tall, pale and a super attractive nose? That one." Alfred chirped excitedly, and with that obvious description of Alfred's date, my face scrunches up in disdain. I was somehow grateful that he couldn't see me, he would have been offended.

"Al, I thought you didn't like Ivan because he's, to quote you exactly three days ago, 'a fucking commie?'" I asked, exasperated, because three days, that's all it frickin' took. Expect the lad to change his mind because said Russian was good in – "What can I say, the sex was incredible!" – bed.

Alfred F. Jones wasn't the best editor I ever had the opportunity to have, but he's sort of dedicated and tries to be as supportive as his short-spanned attention would allow. I was kind of grateful to have him –not so much. The only downfall to this charming and definitely ridiculous young man is his tendency to let his prick choose his partners for him.

Well each to his own, I suppose. I'm not exactly in the position to judge his love life since I practically don't have one. But it's not because I can't smooth talk a person to bed–I'm the perfect gentleman –but more of my lack of interest to pursue a sex/love life.

I guess I'm too caught up in writing novels. It is a life I greatly enjoy, anyways.

"I suppose it can't be helped, then." I sighed, mentally bidding the guy luck on his relationship, because if I were to take a wild guess on Alfred's newest relationship, I'm betting the sex came first. One can only hope it ends well.

On the other side, my editor laughed. "Aww, Artie, you'll survive a day without the hero! Anyways, I hafta go, it's a lunch date." He said hurriedly, and then without waiting for a reply, he cut the call off.

I sighed again before pocketing my phone. I should remember to scold him for his uncouth manners later, but right now, I had work to do. Alone. Oh well. All in a day's work, I reckon.

I glanced at one of the many buildings of the university. This particular one houses future artists and graphic designers.

The building was quite nice and has this nice peaceful environment so kids could enrich their knowledge and hone skills in comfort. The exhibit hall covers the entire ground floor, the lecture areas on the second and third floor, then the art studios and work areas on the fourth floor. Also on the first floor there is a small reference library, for research. And on the rooftop there is a great view of the observatory building.

There were framed artworks all over the walls – excluding the ones in the exhibit hall – mostly done by skilled students.

Since it was their term break, there weren't much people roaming around the building except the maintenance and some faculty members. I was free to linger around after my editor dropped in a word for me, so that gives me free reign to squeeze out inspiration from the paintings -I had to fill out some forms so that I won't take pictures of the artwork though.

The arrays of paintings on the wall vary in styles and subjects. There were landscape paintings, still-life, portraits, abstract, sketches, and many others. They were all in perfect detail, the strokes of the brush, the amount of application, the blending of the colours and the measurements, and everything is perfect about them. I was in awe, as I examine every single painting on each floor.

I briefly wondered how it was like to touch them, but I didn't want to try because I might find a flaw in those artworks. That way, they can remain perfect in my mind.

A passing faculty member – Tino, was it? – offered to teach me basic art. I politely refused. When I was beginning to explore art schools, galleries, like a lion starved for inspiration. Early on, I have decided to have an artist as my protagonist for a change –fans can be super demanding but more of wanting to have a chane of pace –and I was required to learn as much as I could about art styles, types and techniques. I obsessed over art books, learning as much as I could, then visiting as much galleries, exhibits and museums I would chance upon. Talk to some artists, have them explain their art -they all had different answers.

My friends thought I was going mad, maybe I was. Alfred stayed by my side through it all. He believed in me when no one else did. I was blessed to have Alfred as my editor and my trusted friend.

And now that I even had enough knowledge to be able to teach sixth grade students about basic art, after all that time, I still had no story to tell.

Alfred was beginning to lose hope. He never dared to let me see it in his eyes, but when he thought I wasn't looking, I saw. I saw that acceptance. Maybe he's just gonna get another novelist. He shouldn't be too emotional on this; it isn't like this didn't happen all the time. Maybe his time to shine was just simply over.

It wasn't like Alfred could anything about it –me. I can't write, what good of a novelist am I? Of course he wouldn't wait for me for forever. He needed the job more than I did.

'Let's just see about that,' I thought with bitter anger. I was Arthur Kirkland, the most famous novelist of the year! I have six best-selling books that get shipped all over the world! As if I'd let this writer's block get the best of me. No, sir!

I stalked off angrily, passing by some more artworks. I didn't give them a second glance. And with that unconscious, itching desire to be alone although there was hardly anyone around, I wandered into a vacant hallway that seemed to be more unused than the others. I entered a random door, without thinking.

Oh my.

I was in a small studio.

I found myself staring at the wall, my hand still stuck to the door knob. There was a mural on the smooth of the wall, partially covered by a shadow.

I didn't know people still do murals. Except for outdoor ones, vandalizing someone else's property. Well this is an art school, what was I supposed to expect?

Maybe they let students do this as part of their creative licensce –I didn't know much about the regulation of this college.

Curious, I stumbled to the window and tugged on the curtain to let some sunlight stream in, illuminating the painting.

It was a portrait of a woman, a beautiful one. She was standing over the edge of a bridge, looking over the waters –based on the dark hues of blue beneath the bridge. Some of her golden hair that not held by the hairclip was being blown by the sea breeze. She was wearing a white, ruffled blouse and a grey skirt, both fluttering in the wind.

Her face held an expression of nostalgia, especially in those blue eyes.

The artist of this painting could possibly be missing her home. An exchange student, perhaps? But if that were the case, shouldn't she be more focused on the landscape more? The portion where the girl was painted was larger than the landscape itself –almost as if the landscape was just there to show a place of where she was.

Why would she focus on portraying the woman more? Does she want people to see her melancholic expression? Why? Vanity?

I felt myself frowning, because it was so obvious.

Clearly it is vanity. There wasn't any other reason for anyone to paint their face. She wants people to see who she is –but she is nothing but an overreacting conceited fool.

I quickly dropped my duffel bag to the ground and stepped closer to the mural, letting my fingers trail over it. The strokes were small, repeated a lot more than needed, but they weren't obvious until you actually touch them.

Why would anyone paint on a wall? How outrageous. Even if it was for creative purposes, there were canvases here, why not use them?

What kind of painting is this? I couldn't stand to look at it, it was disgusting. How selfish, how self-centered the artist of this vandalism was! Whoever they were, they didn't know the essence of true art. They don't understand what it means to create artworks.

People like this shouldn't have any right to create artworks. I'll show her.

Irritably, I tore a piece of paper from my notebook, because writing is also an art. I wanted nothing but to throw it at the mural, damage it in anyway, because it didn't deserve to exist. Okay maybe that was a bit too much, but I hated it all the same.

I began scribbling on it with my pen, words flowing out without any second thought. There was nothing in my mind but anger, and the upmost desire to show her, to make her learn what art is.

It was like being trapped in a trance, my hand moving with a mind of its own. I haven't done this in a long while, and the last time I did this was when I wrote my last best-selling book.

It was a good, familiar feeling.

And when I was done, the hype dying down and the sudden bout of inspiration left me, I set down my pen and examined my handiwork. I had to reread it to make sure I didn't make any mistakes –I am quite the perfectionist, I have to admit –and when I was sure there were none, I smiled.

I put it up next to painting, and left. With the hopes of the mystery painter finding it.


End file.
